


Centre of Gravity

by NadiasGhost



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), yoi - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Engaged to be married Vikyuuri, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I coulda made a spread eagle joke but I didn’t guys, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pair skating has never not been an innuendo in Viktor Nikiforov's books, Slow Burn, Some angst, The phrase: “yuri do you trust me”, i think i spelled Victor's name Viktor in some part pls ignore me, like a reeeeeally slow burn, viktuuri is still engaged lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiasGhost/pseuds/NadiasGhost
Summary: Set after another year of GPF training and competition.**“And um…. I had this idea….”“Spit it out Beka.”“Well,” Otabek hummed, regretting his decision to vocalize the stupid idea, even if he’d spent the whole plane ride thinking out its every detail, “we could do a pair skate.”“Sure,” Yuri said easily, sitting back and leaning against the bed frame beside him, seemingly ignorant to Otabek’s huge breath in of relief, “what are you thinking.”





	Centre of Gravity

Yuuri Katsuki had won gold for the first time in his professional career. After taking a year off the ice, Viktor Nikiforov had won silver (also possibly for the first time in his professional career). The only surprising aspect of the whole affair was that minutes before Viktor went on the ice, Yuuri let him out of the gold metal marriage deal, meaning no matter who won, Yuuri had properly accepted his proposal. Finally. After an entire year. And on live television. And Viktor genuinely tried, oh he tried his best, and was beaten by his fiance by a half point. Which, to nobody’s surprise, he couldn’t be happier about. 

However all this meant that Yuri Plisetski won bronze, a year after his first gold. Which was why the ice tiger of russia was blaring frankly horribly tasteless old metallica music and “definitely not sulking”, when Otabek went to knock on his door. 

Grandpapa Plisetski let Otabek in quietly, and with a smile, as electric guitar blared from the upstairs of the house, and simply pointed to the stairs shaking his head. Otabek thanked him, and climbed the stairs, feeling strange nostalgia for the last time he’d been in this house. Him and Yuri had been in such high spirits, a week before the Grand Prix Final, Yuri’s nerves turning into something electric and contagious. Otabek paused at the mostly closed door, before pushing it in silently.

The world famous legend Yuri Plisetski stopped his animated air-drumming, from his position lying on his back on the floor, and looked up in confusion. Whatever Russian My Chemical Romance knockoff was playing continued to blare as he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, blushing. A momentary smile lit up his face, quickly followed by: “haven’t you ever heard of knocking, asshole?” 

“I missed you too, Yura.” Otabek sat next to him on the floor. He wanted a hug, he’d been trying not to get his hopes up for a hug the entire flight here, but now here Yuri was sprawled out on the floor, seeming completely uninterested in getting up and greeting him. Otabek sighed, leaning back against Yuri’s dresser. 

“It’s only been two weeks,” came Yuri’s muffled reply. He’d slightly turned, and was now laying with his cheek pressed against the carpet. For a normal human, Yuri’s resting positions seemed like odd, contortionist acts, but Otabek was used to sitting weirdly on the floor by now.  
“Yeah, but I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you after the competition, Yura.”

“Hmpf,” was all Otabek got in reply. “I know you weren’t feeling great, but um, next time if you’re gonna skip out on the after party, tell me okay?” 

“Why? Couldn’t you just go talk to….” Yuri paused, sneaking a glance up at Otabek. “Are you just realizing now,” Otabek asked, “that I don’t have any other friends in the circuit?” 

“No, I’m not, I’m just…. Shit. I’m sorry I left you. I just didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” Yuri mumbled.  
“Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” 

Yuri mumbled something unintelligible, and Otabek nudged him with a foot. “Because I’m grumpy right now.”

“You’re always grumpy.” 

“Well…. Grumpy-er.”

What they both left unsaid was that grumpy-er really meant sad. “Why don’t we do something to make you less grumpy?” Otabek asked. “No. Don’t wanna.”

“Yura….” 

“If you came here to be annoying you can leave, Beka.” From the way his shoulders were tensing, and he was resting with his face pillowed in his arms against the carpet, Yuri was waiting to weigh his answer, despite his snark. 

Time to pull out the only thing that always worked. 

“I’m not happy either, Yura. I didn’t even make the podium, fourth for the second year in a row, okay? You’re not alone. My current image, repertoire, abilities and trajectory. I feel like fourth is my ceiling. And I didn’t come all this way for that.”

“You must feel frustrated,” Yuri whispered, muffled. Otabek hummed in response, glad he was able to draw out a response from Yuri that touched on his actual feelings. Finding middle ground where they were both upset always made it easier for Yuri to talk about difficult things. He didn’t feel weak. 

“And angry,” Yuri continued, “and…. And sad.” 

“Yeah,” Otabek whispered back, letting the hard wooden drawer handles of the dresser behind him push into his back and ground him. 

“I’m sorry, Beka,” Yuri whispered, getting up and crawling over to him. The shorter boy slowly wrapped his slender arms around Otabek’s middle, burying his face into Otabek’s shoulder. Otabek sighed again, bringing an arm around him. This was not how he wanted to get a hug.  
Yuri hiccuped, and Otabek slowly pulled away, beginning to mumble something along the lines of “thank you, Yura, I feel better now”, but Yuri only tightened his hold, hands clenched tightly to the material of Otabek’s shirt. They both knew who this hug was for, but Otabek let himself smile slightly, half-happy, half-sad, resting his chin on Yuri’s head. 

He was frustrated and he was angry and he was sad to be one place out of the podium for a second year in a row. But there were other things in life, other things like Yuri Plisetski, and it made his chest a little less tight remembering that. 

Otabek acknowledged that-- if left to his own devices-- Yuri would just train alone and do nothing else for an entire year, full of bitterness and spite. He would cut himself off from the rest of the world and-- though this would help him improve his skating-- it would not help with his mood. 

“Yura,” Otabek whispered, “I have an idea.” 

“Is it a dumb idea?” the younger boy asked, settling in to lean again Otabek. “Hmmm…. Dumber than the trip to Novosibirsk, but less dumb than that time with the motorcycles in Hasetsu.”

Yuri laughed quietly, and whispered back, “alright then. I’m listening.” 

“We should work towards an exhibition skate together, so you can show the judges how big of threat you’re going to be to the Vikyuri power couple next season.”

Otabek let his eyes focus on the far wall, waiting. He knew Yuri needed to work hard towards something, and an exhibition skate that was ridiculously hard could be that thing to center them both. 

“I really just want to focus on training for next season--”

“Oh but Yura we could make it super hard, you know I want to train hard right now too. If you’re just going to be training nonstop why not work on this with me? Besides, I want to show that I’m expanding my skills, and my emotional performance. Brute strength will only keep me at a four. You could help me with that.”

Yuri smiled, Otabek could feel it through his shoulder, even if he couldn’t see. 

“And um…. I had this idea….”

“Spit it out Beka.”

“Well,” Otabek hummed regretting his decision to vocalize the stupid idea, even if he’d spent the whole plane ride thinking its every detail out, “we could do a pair skate.”

“Sure,” Yuri said easily, sitting back and leaning against the bed frame beside him, seemingly ignorant to Otabek’s huge breath in of relief, “what are you thinking.” 

“Oh, well, something simple for the first bit, the lift work would show I’m expanding my skills,” Otabek explained, “and you could choreograph around that. I know you want to work on showing the judges something mature.”

“Alright Alkin. Two things,” the russian boy asserted, “first of all, I have been showing mature performances for since I debuted in the senior bracket for the Grand Prix. And secondly, who said anything about you lifting me?”

Otabek laughed. “I know you don’t want to be stuck only in the box of Apage, but…. Yura, the concepts for the programs you’ve done since then have seemed…. forced, somehow. Like some kind of showy teenage rebellion. Welcome to the Madness was amazing, and it grabbed the world’s attention, but…. Wearing less on the ice and choosing music with electric guitar doesn’t truly show maturity, Yura.” Yuri looked at his hands, and for a moment Otabek was worried he’d finally fucked up. They were always 100% honest with each other, they wouldn’t have it any other way, but Yuri had been so fragile since…. 

“Alright sure but wouldn’t a mature skater do the lifting?” Otabek rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t finished. You should do the lift work for the second half. I know you’re good at it, Mila’s told me all about some forced pair skate practice Yakov had you do--”

“Ew. Don’t bring up Mila’s name in my household.”

“-- And I know if you didn’t hate her so much you could do quite well in a pair skate with her,” Otabek continued, “you could show them your growing strength, and I could focus on the emotion conveying aspect of the program. That all is…. If you can lift me, Yura.”

“What?! Of course I can!! I’m a professional skater!! I--!!!”

“Yura, yura, I know,” Otabek assured, “all I’m saying is I’m pretty heavy...,.”

“Of course you are!” Yuri cried indignantly, “that’s all muscle!” With that he lunged to pick Otabek up as proof and they both tumbled into the bed. “Yuri, your entire bed is throw pillows,” Otabek laughed, pulling an offending lion-themed pillow out from under his back as Yuri extracted his legs from under Otabek’s. 

“Leave my throw pillows alone,” Yuri fired back, hitting him with a russian flag one. 

“Beka….” He continued, “tell me more about the program.”

**

Yuri looked up as his phone buzzed. 

Incoming Text From: Beka-Bear  
Here’s a clip of that Canadian skater I was telling you about. 

From: Yura  
Uh-hun. 

From: Beka-Bear  
I’ve told you, Yura, he’s nothing like JJ. 

From: Yura  
Fine. 

From: Beka-Bear  
He won gold four times, and retired before Viktor’s debut. 

From: Yura  
You know I’m always happy to take inspiration from anybody other than Viktor.

From: Beka-Bear  
Yes, actually. I do know that. And before you watch it, yes I know it’s about an angel falling from heaven. It’s different, but I like it. Obviously we would only want to allude to it a little, but I think judges would recognize it, and paying tribute to a retired skater is always considered “refined” and “mature”, don’t ask me why.

Yuri laughed under his breath at the air quotes. 

“Yuri, no phones at the table,” his grandfather scolded. “I’m done anyway, dedushka. Thank you.”

From: Yura  
K, I’m watching it. 

Otabek rolled over, curling on his side in his bed, his phone in one hand. His face was pressed against his shoulder, and the fabric of his shirt would probably make a mark. But it was a sunday, and he was in his little apartment just outside of St. Petersburg, an hour from Yuri’s grandfather’s house, and the only places he might go today were Yuri’s, or the grocers. 

Though he was living in St. Petersburg now, he felt like he was barely at home, and that made this small apartment barely feel like home. He had barely seen Yuri, let alone any of the other skaters as they were preparing intensely for the Grand Prix Final, and for the two weeks after it had been nothing but interviews and meeting with supporters and flying around. 

He missed Kazakhstan in that he missed the air and the plants and the skyline and the city. He missed the familiarity of all the things that had shaped his childhood. But he didn’t miss his home as much as he thought he would. He’d basically lived at the rink since he was 12, and as he found himself alone in the second biggest city in Russia, he’d realized he was always independant to a certain degree, and he’d always seemed to be alright on his own. 

Besides, St. Petersburg had a rink that was open to professionals 24/7 and Yuri Plisetski. What more did he really need?

From: Yura  
That was depressing as hell, Beka. 

Otabek smiled at his phone. “Depressing as hell” was Yuri code for “actually emotionally touching and thought provoking”. Yuri must’ve actually seen what Otabek had seen in the old footage. 

From: Beka-Bear  
While we can do whatever we want with our skate. We could have an angel who falls, and gets back up again. 

From: Yura  
Yeah. I like that. 

**

“Um wow Yuri, I’m pleasantly surprised that you would come to me for advice.” 

“Get over yourself, Katsudon. I’m here at your place because Viktor is ordering in food, and I thought I would make conversation to be nice.”

“But you want advice on pair skating for a program with Otabek?” 

“Yeah,” Yuri said, shrugging, “you talk about your exhibition pair skate with Viktor all the time. I thought you would love to talk about it some more.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said, confused as to whether or not he was being insulted, “well…. Practice your lifts-- if you’re doing serious lifts-- and the rest of the program separately, and then put the two together, and um…. Have a balance, nobody in charge but the two of you working together…. And, well you have to trust one another completely and the whole experience is so rewarding because you’re so in sync and--”

“Oh look, I think I see Viktor coming home, I’ll go open the door,” Yuri deadpanned, standing. “Hey,” Katsuki defended, “you ASKED for advice.”

“Yes, ADVICE, Katsudon. Not some romantic crap about how in sync you and Viktor are--”

“I have the food, lovelies,” came an unmistakable voice from the entrance way. “Huh,” Yuri said in surprise, “he really is home.” 

**  
They’d finished eating, and it was always nice to spend time with Viktor and Katsuki, no matter how much Yuri pretended to hate it. As Katsuki left the room to go get some dessert or other in the fridge,and Yuri said as casually as he could to Viktor: “hey, old man, any advice on pair skating?”

For a moment Viktor stated at him with an unreadable expression, and then he began with the question: “Otabek?”

“Yeah,” Yuri responded, unsurprised. He only had 3 friends.Viktor was one, and he was engaged to the other. That left only one real possibility. 

“Well,” Viktor said, his voice again slightly off, “I’ll start with this, Yuri. When two skaters love each other very much--”

“What?! NO?! JESUS FUCKING NO THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!!” Yuri all but screeched, “I mean we’re actually pair skating! ON the ice you IDIOT!” 

“Oh,” Viktor replied, “I’ll admit, I’m a little relieved. But as your father--”

“You are NOT MY FATHER!”

“--I have to ask. Are you and Otabek, um, pair skating OFF the ice?” 

“FUCK YOU NIKIFOROV!” 

“What have you done now, Viktor?” Katsuki asked, entering with the dessert and effectively saving Yuri from launching himself through one of their apartment windows in the the cold russian night. 

“Absolutely nothing, dear,” Viktor lied, leaning up to help put the dessert plate on the table. 

**

Yuri was genuinely excited for the program. They’d decided he would wear the fallen angel homage outfit, and begin the program with an intense series of jumps across the entirety of the ice that represented his fall from heaven. Once he reached Otabek, he’d reach out and Otabek, would lift him for the first half, then be lifted for the second. 

Through their busy schedules, the very first thing they practice happened a week after Otabek first proposed the idea. Normally professionals would consider the idea for a while before committing, but the two of them were already tired of pushing themselves to train for next year alone. 

They decide to practice Otabek lifting Yuri in the simplest three lifts first, and off the ice, with Yuri’s skates on. Only then would they run the first half of the program. Yuri only met this suggestion with minimal protesting, and after warming up he laced his skates quickly, walking to the rubber outside path around the empty rink.

“Alright, c’mere,” Otabek said, offering Yuri both his hands, “I’m going to stand in simple Ina Bauer, and you just jump a little and I’ll lift you up.”

Yuri approached him slowly. 

“Yuri, do you trust me?” 

“Yes.”

He hoisted Yuri easily from the waist, and stood him-- skates and all-- on one of his knees. “Alright, show me what the Ice Tiger of Russia actually remembers from practice,” Otabek teased. Yuri leaned forwards into him, and pressed his belly button into Otabek’s shoulder, transferring all of his weight. Otabek’s strong arms wrapped around his middle in support as Yuri lifted his feet off of Otabek’s knee and into the air, grabbing both ankles in one hand. 

“I like it,” Otabek said quietly from beneath him. Yuri pivoted, swiveling his weight around and supporting himself off of Otabek’s shoulders. He ran through the positions Mila used to practice while he stood there, finding the way that they fit with his limbs. 

“I’m going to move, okay?” Otabek asked, shifting his weight onto one foot and then leaning forwards into a lunge. Yuri moved with him, putting a foot on the ground. 

“I’m going to show you some of the lifts I know, okay?” Otabek asked. Yuri nodded, hopping up again. Otabek grabbed the space between his ribs and his hips and hoisted him first above his shoulder, and then low, the hood of Yuri’s jacket scraping the rubber floor. 

“Up into a layback on three,” Otabek huffed, “one, two--”

He pulled Yuri up until he was really only lifting Yuri’s hips and Yuri was up much higher than he’d expected to be. He leaned back nonetheless, and reached out until he could catch his own skate.

“Good,” Otabek said between breathes, “that’s good.” He let Yuri down gently, his hands still hovering for support. Yuri smiled to indicate that he was okay, just out of breath. 

“Holy shit Beka, you’re good,” Yuri breathed, unfiltered as always, “when did you learn all this.” Otabek smiled sheepishly at the ground, and turned away for a moment, searching his bag for his water bottle, “I asked Mila if she’d teach me what she knows. I figured was taught with you and I…. Didn’t want to be behind and trying to keep up with you.”

Something in Yuri’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t upset about Otabek getting advice from Mila, she was knowledgeable if nothing else. He just didn’t like the thought of Otabek’s arms lifting her up for some reason. The idea of his hands on her waist….

Otabek misread his sudden sullen quiet as being upset from biting down on his pride for so long and letting Otabek flip him around. “C’mon then, Yura, you can lift me now,” he said offering the shorter boy water and trying to draw a smile out of him.

Yuri pushed away the water and found a simple Ina Bauer position with flawless form, as always. The boy extruded ballet easily in everything he did. “Alright, I’ve lifted Mila plenty of times, and you’re half as annoying, so this should be easy,” he joked. 

The moment Yuri’s arms came forwards around his waist, Otabek’s muscles tensed, and he sighed internally-- mostly for Yuri’s sake. 

Yuri lifted him up into the first position with beautiful form for about a second and a half, and then they both fell over and into the rink wall, Otabek’s head hitting on the clear plastic window with a loud smack. 

“Ow-- Oh. Oh my god, Beka. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, it’s just that--”

“I fucking DROPPED you, I am so sorry.”

“Yuri, Yuri, Yuri, it’s OKAY. My center of gravity is a lot different than Mila’s, you’re not used to it yet. I’m a lot heavier than her. You just need to get a feel for what it’s like to lift so much weight at once in the form of a human,” Otabek continued, picking himself off the floor, “bruised but not broken, no big deal, Yura.”

Nonetheless Yuri stared at him for another moment in horror, hand over his mouth, and a high blush on his cheeks. “Yuri,” Otabek continued, now upright, and somehow demanding in a gentle way with Yuri’s proper name, “just lift him like me up like you would a set of weights, or grocery bags…. Just pick me up Yuri, I don’t care how. You need to know how heavy I am before you try another proper lift. Or you’ll kill your back.”

“Well,” Yuri replied, clearing his throat and attempting to regain his posture, “I really shouldn’t kill my back. I’m too young to be old like Nikiforov.”

With a determined nature Yuri wrapped his arms around Otabek’s middle, and hoisted him. “Alright,” Otabek smiled, as he was set down, “show me that flawless Ina Bauer, and I’m going to stand on your knee.”

Otabek began to explain a simple lift, and Yuri attempted to focus on what he was saying. Otabek had been right, Yuri really could lift him quite easily, he just had to rethink his point of balance. “.... And Mila told me it works best if you….” As Yuri registered the name Mila, his grip tightened in the fabric of Otabek’s shirt. 

“Hey, hey, ow,” Otabek complained, squirming out of his grip and setting a foot back on the floor. Yuri looked up in surprise, looking for a face of annoyance. But Otabek just looked down at him, a little concerned, but not angry, and guided his hands back to his waist. “You need to hold here, Yura, not the fabric.”

Yuri had always disliked Mila, but he couldn’t tell why now all of a sudden made him ready to punch something. Otabek finished whatever he was doing, the two of them not so much working in harmony, but more so Yuri standing still on auto-pilot. “You’re a much better lifting partner than Mila,” Otabek grinned down at him. He was starting to sweat, and the front pieces of his hair were falling in front of his eyes. Yuri’s blood sang at the praise. 

“C’mon, Yuri,” he said, hopping down. There was something off about him, his movements weren’t quite easy, but again there were too many things banging around in Yuri’s head for him to figure out what it was. “I can sense you’re a little out of it, but I think if we take to the ice, we’ll start moving together better.” What was unsaid was that they fit like puzzle pieces off the ice, moving easily enough in each other’s orbits no matter where they were, so that would only make sense. 

“I’ll lift you first,” Otabek clarified. He checked his laces, and they stepped onto the ice. “I’ll play something familiar,” Otabek joked, skating backwards and away from Yuri, and pulling out his phone. 

Yuri caught up to him as he was about to press play on “Welcome To The Madness”. 

“Why do you still have this?” Yuri scoffed. Otabek shrugged, looking at his hands and the phone. “I like skating to it when I’m really mad about something, but can’t do anything to fix it. You are the master of angry music, Yuri Plisetski.” He hit play and continued to skate away. “When you’re ready, come find me.”

Yuri skated to the center of the rink, watching his skates as he did so. Now he was picturing Otabek skating to the song that was all his prayers, all his frustration, all his determination, all his fears. And now he was picturing Otabek in the white shirt and the high collared leather jacket and the leather fingerless gloves and the messy hair from that day, that performance. Now he was feeling Otabek’s nimble fingers on the inside of his wrist, tugging off a glove. Now he was feeling Otabek’s teeth graze over his pointer finger as he bit down and yanked Yuri’s other glove off with his teeth. Now he was feeling the exhaustion and the numbing beat of his heart and every emotion from that day. 

He reached the center of the ice and fell into a set of reaching jumps, holding the collar of a jacket that wasn’t there out of habit, out of muscle memory. His arms made great sweeping motions with his arms, feeling the cold air rush through his shirt sleeves in a way that glazed right over him. The only chill he felt was that of the pressure of the moving air, down his spine. 

Yuri pushed his arms down, trying to feel the confidence this song gave him without all the other emotions. He wanted something that came naturally something easy, that would clear his head, but he knew nothing easy would. He pushed himself up into a triple, and landed breathing hard. 

He forewent the longer spins that his muscles were attuned to based solely on the music, and instead span in big sweeping patterns, owning the rink. As he spotted Otabek, he switched his trajectory, and did a simple jump. He could hear Otabek’s amused and happy hum as he landed, and he twisted quickly, changing course again, straight for Otabek. 

Otabek met him easily, and they turned for a moment, each with too much momentum, before Otabek could turn slightly, and whisk Yuri off the ice, his skates flying far in an arch. For a moment Yuri felt…. Incorrect, being horizontal to the ice. But his head fit safely on Otabek’s shoulder as they spun, Otabek’s arms around the small of he back. 

They flew, most likely far faster than was safe without a true program or plan. Yuri’s skates barely touched the ice, and then they did they slid in ways he’d never felt them slide before. Instead of skimming over the entire rink, he swung around and around Otabek. 

Again Otabek swept him off his skates, and Yuri laughed, free of gravity for a split second. The way he swung up into Otabek’s arms in a large arch made for a second of slack, before he fell into the groove of centrifugal force. He effectively was tossed lightly and caught by Otabek again, and he smiled down at the taller boy, surprising both of them with his sudden pleasure at being completely and totally out of control. 

**

“Dedushku?”

“Yes, Yuri?” 

“My chest hurts.”

Grandpa Plisetski looked up momentarily from where he was cleaning the kitchen counters, to Yuri, perched on one of them. “Otabek--?” He asked. 

“Yes….” Yuri replied, surprised. He brought his knees up to his chest, leaning back against the kitchen wall. 

“--He’s working you too hard, eh?” Grandpa Plisetski continued. “No….” Yuri muttered.

“Oh, so then what part was I right about? Just the Otabek part?” Yuri shrugged in response. 

“Is it a skating hurt?” Grandpa Plisetski continued, “or a love hurt?” 

Yuri sat up in indignation. “I don’t LOVE him,” he asserted, “LOVE is for married couples. Family. How can you love somebody if you don’t even know if you like like them, or if they like like you back?!”

Grandpa Plisetski hummed thoughtfully, and reasoned: “.... Sometimes you just do Yura. I loved your grandmother long before she loved me, liked liked me, or even liked me at all. It’s powerful, isn’t it? Discovering a new kind of love.” 

“I don’t love him,” Yuri stated, “I love skating and I love you and I loved mama and papa. Hell, I even love hanging around those other idiots on my podium. I love sleeping in on saturdays and Potya and hot showers and peroski, but I don’t love him. Not like I love any of that.” 

“Hmmm, maybe not. Maybe not more, and not less, but different. You love him different than any of that?”

“.... Yes,” Yuri admitted, half-realizing it himself. 

**  
The fallen angel who allows himself to be lifted back up by Otabek, and then returned the favour was of course a metaphor for their relationship, as Otabek had well already realized as they began to practice in earnest. But Yuri, for whatever reason, could not see it. 

To point it out seemed out of place to Otabek, and out of line with his personality. When he had realized it himself, he had breathed in a long breath, his lungs aching for a moment. It was the sort of realization that was only surprising to the person realizing it in that they somehow hadn’t realized it earlier. 

It was the kind of realization Yuri needed to realize on his own. 

But he hadn’t yet. 

Not with the heart-wrenching beginning music, the beginning sequence in which Yuri was determined to give his all in the first 30 seconds, until he had nothing left. Not with the first lift, which they always landed perfectly, like the clicking of puzzle pieces coming together, but never comfortably, always clashing as they met, with too much momentum from either side. Not with the way Otabek struggled to be sweet in the second half of the program, struggled to be gentle. Not with the way that by the end of each run through, Otabek was always leaning entirely into Yuri for support, but unafraid to do so. 

Not with the the careful attention to an equal push and pull of power over the direction of the program. An equal respect for each other. Not with all the sentiments Otabek meant, but could never express in words. 

No. Yuri was hung up on the outfits, and the fact that Otabek seemed to think Mila was “better at teaching lifts” than him. 

Otabek had asked Mila again-- of all people, and he knew he couldn’t tell Yuri or else the younger boy would go on yet another rant about how much he hated her-- to help him order costumes in St. Petersburg. At the time it seemed logical. He didn’t want to burden Yuri with it; he knew Yuri hated calling costumers on the phone almost as much as he hated MIla. And he had realized rather late that he really couldn’t order costumes from his normal place in Kazakhstan, the shipping that would be ridiculously unnecessary. And he really didn’t know anywhere in St. Petersburg. He didn’t know where was good, and where was not. 

So he asked Mila. 

And that was his mistake. 

He gave her only as reference: the picture of the canadian champion’s angel costume, and the information that the costume was for Yuri.

The two boxes with their costumes arrived all too close to the date of the exhibition skate for Otabek’s taste. When it finally arrived Otabek gave Yuri’s package directly to him. Without opening it, or looking at it. Like an idiot and without thinking. 

But of course-- because it was Mila-- the angel costume was…. not what Otabek had pictured. It was excessively revealing, with a v-cut down the front that was somehow reminiscent of Yuri’s white short program costume two Grand Prixs ago. It had the delicate outlines of black angel’s wings running down the backs of each of his arms. When he lifted them the wings expanded, as though he was flying. And of course-- because it was Mila-- it came with a clip on navel piercing with a silver cross. 

And so as Yuri arrived cautiously at the rink in a skin tight black, grey and white costume with large see-through paneling on the front and back, with a fake navel piercing that blinked under every fluorescent overhead light, he was trying to wrap his head around the idea that Otabek-- OTABEK-- had chosen such a costume for him. And that also meant that Otabek had written…. No. That was nothing like him. He couldn’t have typed the note included in the costume package. There was no way. By the time he made slammed through the front doors and into the change rooms he was blushing furiously and valiantly trying, but failing, to hide it. 

His confusion was no match, however, for Otabek’s. Otabek stopped in the doorway, swallowed at least three times, coughed at least once, blinked in confusion for a moment, and finally remembered to breath about a second before he would’ve blacked out and sprawled onto the floor. 

Because: navel piercing. 

Navel. 

Piercing. 

And shimmery see-through spandex and white sleeves that covered Yuri’s palms and a black arched wing pattern that delicately wrapped his neck in a sheer and feather-design choker. And. Navel. Piercing. It took Otabek a long moment to realize that he was in a tee-shirt and leggings, and he wasn’t wearing his costume, as he’d already practiced stretches in it, and he wasn’t sure if they were going to practice in costume or not for their final run-through. It took Otabek an even longer moment to realize that he was the one who had handed Yuri the costume yesterday, and he was the one who’d “ordered” it and “chosen” it. 

Which meant that Yuri thought Otabek had ordered him a half-there, white, spandex jumpsuit. 

Otabek’s stomach fell somewhere beneath his knees. 

 

“So you chose--”

“NO!” Otabek blurted out in response, in horror. 

“No?” Yuri asked. 

“I mean, um, it’s fine it looks really pretty-- pretty good. It looks pretty good. Fits well too…. Um Yuri,” Otabek all but squeaked, “do you have a navel piercing?” 

“N- no. It never seemed like a good idea what with training and all. This came in the package…. You DID choose this right? You didn’t have Kasuki or god WORSE MILA do it for you?” Yuri asked, suddenly accusatory. 

“Of course, Yura,” Otabek blatantly lied.

“So you wrote the note then?” Yuri continued. 

“Wha-- yeah. Yeah I did,” Otabek continued to lie, praying silently. He was a good person. He didn’t deserve this. 

“Uh-huh. Well then I must thank you,” Yuri said, his voice smooth, but his flaming cheeks betraying his fake cool attitude, “I’m very glad you thought to acquire a costume for me, and not only that, but point out to me that it was bought it specifically to highlight my…. ‘Assets’”. 

“It was Mila, it was all MILA,” Otabek assured loudly, cracking under the pressure. 

Yuri sighed, deeply thankful but all the more confused to be disappointed the mystery had such an ending. 

“Alright, whatever Beka,” he said, laughing in a way that didn’t seem real at all, and shrugging, heading towards the rink. ‘Whatever’ was Yuri for ‘I’m confused’. Otabek blinked and followed after him, utterly in agreement. 

The two of them skated into a place where they could practice the lifts in order, before running through the program. But Otabek spent most of the run-through stuttering, trying not to look at Yuri’s belly button, but most of all cursing the skating costume gods and Mila Babicheva. As Yuri rounded on him, in the rough area for their first jump, he felt like crossing himself. As gingerly as he could, he picked Yuri up as though he was a bomb and swung him gently in the arc of the lift, barely moving his own skates. 

“Beka?” Yuri asked as he was set down. He forcefully tightened Otabek’s grip on his waist and tried to catch his eye. “Earth to Beka? Don’t drop me, okay?” 

They skated together a few paces away, and Otabek leaned into a half-assed version of his spin, and then came back to Yuri. Yuri jumped easily, one knee up on Otabek’s shoulder, giving him an excellent view of only his navel piercing and the line that separated the two halves of his stomach muscles as they moved. 

“Beka, lift,” Yuri said shortly, swinging himself up and propping himself on only the strength of his arms. Otabek quickly did the footwork, and let Yuri down. 

“Look, you’re being…. Weird. Let’s just do it with music, yeah?” Yuri said finally, and had to forcefully remove Otabek’s hands from his elbows, as Otabek has momentarily forgotten that this beautiful boy dressed as a beautiful angel was in fact not an extension of himself. 

“Don’t do anything crazy in the starting combinations. Save some strength,” Otabek managed to call after him. “I can regain my strength while you’re tossing me around,” Yuri called back, “I trust you.”

He hit play and the music began. 

The sheer amount and forced difficulty of spins Yuri managed to cram between one end of the rink and the other surprised Otabek, who was waiting for such a stunt. He barely regained his breath after breathing it out in disbelief as Yuri reached him. 

As Otabek caught onto his momentum, spinning with him, he realized Yuri was already shaking fifteen seconds into the five minute program. Otabek had never seen him so trusting. Otabek’s mind had finally zeroed in completely on performing the lifts properly, acting aspect of the program and his feelings both be damned. As he set Yuri down for the third time, separating but not far, Yuri tripped, falling away from him. 

Otabek caught him by the foot, and yanked him back. They both fell backwards onto the ice, Otabek breaking Yuri’s fall.

Yuri laughed breathlessly. “Thanks for catching me.” 

“No problem,” Otabek huffed in response, automatically checking them both for injuries. Bruised but not broken. 

“You’re bleeding,” Yuri whispered, grabbing for Otabek’s right hand. And he was. He’d caught Yuri’s entire foot, skate, laces, blade and all. The sharp of his skate had sliced Otabek’s palm, and the blood spread pink over their small patch of ice. 

Gently, but easily, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, Yuri lifted the flat of Otabek’s palm and gently kissed it. 

“Yu--” Otabek began, unsure what he was going to say but damn sure that he wanted to say something. Anything. 

“I want to run the second half,” Yuri said abruptly, standing. “What--?” Otabek asked, standing with Yuri, but confused. Yuri was NOT about to brush that off. Hell, Yuri wasn’t about to brush anything off…. 

Otabek meekly retracted his own decisive thoughts. Yuri could do whatever the hell he wanted. Yuri threw himself into a very improvised version of the second half, and Otabek rushed to throw himself into the same rhythm. 

Otabek had been trying to separate his feelings for Yuri Plisetski, and this program, but clearly for Yuri they were all one and the same.

Yuri lifted him easily now, and they moved around one another easier than when Yuri floated away. Before he had realized where they were, Yuri finished the final spin and Otabek carefully descended from the air and into Yuri’s arms, trying to catch his breath and keep his skates in a safe position. “Yura,” Otabek said gently, struggling to keep himself upright with how fast Yuri was still spinning, “Yura, let me down now.”

“No,” Yuri said determinedly, setting his eyes solidly on some point of Otabek’s shoulder. The lights overhead reflected off his costume and his eyes and the background blurred into a fast moving nothingness that somehow still hurt to look at despite all of Newton’s laws and the fact that they really should be slowing soon. “I don’t want to finish the program,” Yuri mumbled, “because…. I…. I don’t want to let you go.”

Otabek leaned forwards and kissed him. Easily. They were close enough. He set his legs around Yuri’s waist, which would’ve looked comical to anyone who didn’t know just how strong the tiny russian was. Yuri started, but kissed him back, eagerly and innocently, like a kiss on the cheek pressed into his lips and Otabek smiled. 

Yuri skated them both determinedly. They were going fast enough now that it would be a sure injury for Otabek to get down at all. Forcing him to choose between staying in his arms, and being sliced to pieces under his swiftly moving skates, was a very Yuri Plisetski thing to do.

Otabek laughed under his breath as he was seated determinedly on the rink’s gate. He ran a thumb over Yuri’s lips, and pulled him in for another-- proper-- kiss, earning a gasp. 

**

Otabek catch a glimpse of himself in the reflective windows that lined the rink. All he got was a long wobbly Otabek sized approximation, so he took a deep breath and entered the front doors. His costume was simple. Not a suit and not anything swirly. Completely plain, and black, and in it he could be anything. 

The moment he’d put it on this morning and realized that the jem over his chest-- the only accent on the body suit-- was a matching colour to the fire accents on Yuri’s boots and the swirls in Yuri’s eyeshadow. He touched the cherry-amber stone absentmindedly as he made his way into the change rooms.

Yuri was tucked onto one of the counters, his back to the corner of the room. He was in his costume and an oversized sweater. He was beautiful. 

“I’m not sure about this, Beka,” he said quietly, twisting one of his shirt cuffs. Otabek felt like the air had been knocked from his lungs. The last 24 hours. He’d been unable to fall asleep when they’d finally stopped texting, smiling at the ceiling like an idiot. He’d pushed a boundary he’d never thought he would and he’d been so fucking glad that he did but now….

“The exhibition skate I mean….” Yuri clarified, “shit, Beka, are you crying?!” 

Otabek looked up in surprise, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“We can do the skate--” Yuri rushed to reassure, “I just--” Otabek crossed the space between them and pressed their lips together resolutely. He pulled back to rest his forehead against Yuri’s and mumble, “it’s not about the skate Yura. What’s wrong with the skate? Don’t worry about any of it, okay? The lifts are flawless, in both halves. I couldn’t be emotionless if I tried when I’m skating with you, and you’re definitely showing them a new, mature side of yourself they’ve never seen before. Not apage, not rebellious, but something new. I can see it in your face right now.”

“I know, and…. Maybe I’m overthinking this….” Yuri mumbled back, “but…. It just kind of feels like a reflection of us, you know? You pick me up when I fall and I pull you into dumb shit and it just kind of really feels like us.... But I don’t feel like an angel right now, or ever.”

“Then just be Yuri,” Otabek replied, bumping their noses together. 

“Kiss me,” Yuri whispered. Otabek did. 

“I meant at the end of the exhibition, idiot. When I set you down,” Yuri laughed, rolling his eyes. Otabek did.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay I finished YOI a while ago and I'm finally writing for it :)  
> Title because I headcannon that Yuri will at some point be an awkward noodle after his last growth spurt, and Center of Gravity is also a hella metaphor for depending on somebody in a positive healthy way


End file.
